


Life in a Love

by dleigh



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Points of View, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-10
Updated: 2005-05-10
Packaged: 2018-12-27 00:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12070338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dleigh/pseuds/dleigh
Summary: Based on inference of S5 spoilers--Brian broods about what could have been.





	Life in a Love

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

_“Just as well,”_ you said to the closed door. The bell tolled, the shrill clanging still reverberating in your head after all this time, echoing in the wide open space that was again your domain. In that reclaimed space, you stood alone for all to see. 

He told you he loved you. He told you he’d miss you. He hoped to be as good, as strong, as you someday. He told you that no matter where he went, no matter whom he was with… you would always be there. 

It wasn’t a lie really, it was a confirmation of what you meant to each other. You having made the proclamation the first night, and he the last, it summed up your time together perfectly. 

Funny how things turn out. 

In the days before he left, between the constant spasms in your gut, and the looming fog of his absence slowly eating you away, you looked back on happier times. Times were good, once, long stretches of just you and he being what you were. No boyfriend, no partner, no guilt over things not said nor done, and no paralyzing fear of loss. 

Of course, remembrance often led to things best left forgotten, things that you’d rather not have gone through. Things that chipped at your smooth façade until even strangers could see the cracks... things that had your heart beating out of your chest with anxiety. Good things, bad things. The excitement and fear of life actualized. 

He told you that he’d come back for weekends. Not right away, of course, but as soon as he got settled, and of course you agreed. You made plans to try to stay connected, but plans are no substitute for feelings, and you both knew it. Circumstance change; connections break. The inevitable drift began, and before long, the only time you heard his voice was on the phone, and then even that disappeared, replaced with cold-but-cheerful email. 

Then, some new project or thing or whatever the hell came up, stalling… No, not stalling, simply postponing the next visit… but you knew this was the warning bell. Teetering on the ledge, you had a prime view of the precipice of unrelenting regrets. 

What could you say? In the beginning, you only made it to New York a couple of times yourself. There was still a place for you, but it wasn’t your place. He was well settled by then, with new friends, new things… a new life. It’s not that he’d forgotten you. Never that. It’s just that he was Justin and - well, there is no “and.” Given the chance to free himself of his past, he’d inexplicably freed himself from you. 

How could you object? Why would you? In New York, he could be who and what he wanted to be, free of obligation and the endless ties that bind. When the “new” Justin dutifully showed no trace of what had once been you, you convinced yourself that he’d chosen the right path, and it was time for you to do the same. Following the script that was dog-eared and yellowed with time, you became vacant, distant, indisposed to Justin… never realizing what lie down the road. 

The irony of it all was striking in its simplicity – after three years of push-and-pull, go-don’t-go, you’d finally begun to value what you’d always seen fit to pass by. It had never occurred to you that latching on, coupling up, could be enjoyable, fun, useful. It could become comfortable; it could be something worth investing in and having for time. Or, better put, it could have been, because when you finally saw fit to grab on ferociously, it was slick with neglect and bucked out of your grasp. Buckling under the strain of so-called “relationship tedium,” you wished the situation vanquished and freely released your grip. 

You can’t tell if they know how you fought to hang on, or if they think you let go without a care, but the pity in their eyes makes you feel pathetic. They mean to comfort, but their handshakes are like headlocks and even though you’re the one who has grabbed on for dear life, it still feels like they’re dragging you down. You see yourself reflected in their eyes, and it makes you want to call him, just to see if there’s anything of you left in him. 

It’s not the absence of a warm body next to you has you all down and out. Shit, you’ve had all there is in Pittsburgh twice over, and you long ago conceded that they were all pretty much okay, except for the conversation… and even though their taunts were petty and full of envy, they weren’t all wrong. You just might end up a bitter, lonely old fag regretting the one that got away - the one you pushed away - with no one to blame but yourself. 

You could still have any guy, at any time, for any thing, but the point is moot. There’s only one guy you actually want and there is so much regret behind it. You no longer have the power over him, and you’ve lost some of the power over yourself, as well. The desire you controlled for yourself, for both of you, evaporated just like that. He would have done anything for you. He would have waited and waited, spanning ages if he could, just to be with you. 

He would have. Once. 

Not ever one to say, ‘what if,’ it now plagues you. 

The last time you talked, you thought you heard a hesitation in his voice, unsure of how to say something to you. He picked carefully through the conversation, wanting to be gentle, wanting to be mindful of what he said regardless of how badly you treated him. He called to tell you he loved you still, and desperately he tried to convince you it was true. True, still true, had always been true, and again he wanted you to know this. 

The honesty of it, the weight, was oppressive, and that was all it took to release a cruelty he’d never bothered with before. 

_“Get it through your pretty, naïve little head, why don’t you? When something’s over, it’s over. Christ, why can’t you understand that?”_

Of course he objected, and it gave you the time you needed to collect yourself. You cleared your throat and mentioned something about more important matters, needing to end the call. Saving him from what he might say to you, saving you from hearing it; saving you both from acknowledging that the cruelty was not born from hate, or disinterest, but quite the opposite. 

And that was it. 

You didn’t cry, or pine for love’s loss; nothing like that. What you did was to wither slowly, break down bit by bit, the pace excruciatingly slow. More than once, you examined the destruction on the path behind you, wondering why you’d chosen this road in the first place. Why you’d opened yourself up, why, when you’d known this would all come to pass… The questions were repetitive, but gentle, and not terribly probing, because the answers were always at the ready until you couldn’t bear to hear them anymore. 

Months go by, unmarked, and when you consider talking to him… well, what on earth could you possibly need to say? You’ve heard from him once, just one time since you said what had to be said. He caught you in a moment of weakness – off your game with a fever and aching from the loneliness of being sick and alone, you gave in and talked. 

Just the way he said your name gave you shivers, and even in the delirium of a 103 temperature, you could still differentiate between the effects of the flu and the aftereffects of an affair. Blanketed with convenient excuses, melancholy for him, you acquiesced, but only to a point… he wanted to tell you about his recent showing, how well he’d done… looking not for love but for pride, for a thing rusty with disuse after eleven months alone. 

Even though you kept him on the phone, listening to his voice, his breath, his efforts were futile. Again he had come to you seeking something you were unprepared to give, and again you denied him release. 

After that came nothing. His ability to cut you out, surgical, precise, shocks you. How could he have the audacity to finally do what you’ve been telling him to do? Of all the words you’d spoken and not spoken, this is when he chose to pay attention? It wounds you as never before. As callous as you’ve been to him, do you really deserve this? Yes, you told him it was over, and yes, you told him to leave you alone… but you never told him to stop loving you. 

And he said he was on to you. 

You still let yourself wallow in wonderment sometimes, amazed by the way you ache, the way you feel so vacant. It makes you realize for the millionth time the depth of what he was and is, will always be, to you. Having his love, the grace of all, devastated you with the knowledge that you’d never be able to share in its expanse. Now, having lost all that it was, it takes away forever the little you had. 

As much as you gloss it over, pass it by, try to ignore it out of your head, it won’t be avoided. What happened happened, and you can’t tell yourself, _‘Just as well,’_ these days. It aches too much and nurturing that pain is too pathetic even for you. There’s nothing good about it, and if the past months were any indication of hell, you’d rather not spend eternity there. 

Every now and then, you try to pick up and move on. There’s always been someone who’s let you down, someone who failed to measure up in some way or another. You can stand the disappointment because you’re nothing if not resilient when dealing with failure. What you can’t take, can’t bear, is being looked upon as one, especially by the someone who had all that you longed to be. 

Eventually you come to the realization that Justin never disappointed you so much as when he took his love from you. 

You pick up the phone, dial the memorized number, and wait. You won’t be surprised if it’s no longer in service…it’s what you would once have done. 

It rings, slowly, and a core of something more than just anxiety speeds your heart. After all the places he’s gone, and all the people he’s been with, you really, really hope that you’re still there. 

When he picks up, your breath hitches in your lungs, heavy. It takes a second to work up the courage. It’s all you have left.


End file.
